


Penned Dragon: Episode 1: The Dragon’s Call

by BingeMac



Series: Penned Dragon [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Detectives, Eventual Relationships, WIP, first in series, no magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-10-01 15:46:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10193303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BingeMac/pseuds/BingeMac
Summary: (WIP, on hiatus) Modern AU, no magic.  Arthur is a famous writer who can’t figure out what the lead character in his bestselling James King detective series should do next.  Merlin is head detective at the NYPD and his captain just assigned him a new partner for a few days.  Can they stop bickering long enough to solve the murder of a john doe?





	1. Chapter 1- I am Only One Side of a Coin.  The Brighter Side, Obviously.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N- We'll see how long this one lasts, honestly. I just thought I'd post it. I'm still working on Draco Sirius Black which is my main priority, but I think I can handle two stories... probably.

For acclaimed author Arthur Pendragon, life was going pretty well. He was successful, his detective series a number one bestseller year after year. He was one of People Magazine’s most eligible bachelors. He hosted a monthly poker game with his fellow authors, and considered Leon Young to be a close personal friend. He lived in a penthouse in Manhattan.

And sure, he shared that penthouse with his sister and could never seem to make a relationship last longer than than a couple weeks (possibly because he lived with his sister), but Arthur was never one to complain. Ok… he was.

“I’m out of fucking ideas.”

Arthur took a long swig of whiskey straight from the bottle and handed it over to Morgana. She reached for it blindly and took a few gulps, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand lazily once she finished. His sister was a few shots ahead of him.

“Oh the great and powerful Arthur lost all his creative juices. How will he cope?!” Morgana flung her hands into the air wildly and Arthur yanked the whiskey bottle away from her before she can spill any of the contents on the suede couch.

Arthur narrowed his eyes at her and pouted. “Stop being petty. This is serious, ‘Gana.”

Morgana huffed, but her green eyes were apologetic. “You’ll be fine little brother--“

“When will you stop pointing that out? I’m only two months younger than you,” Arthur interjected.

“I’ll stop lording that tiny minuscule fact over you when I’m finally better than you at literally anything else! At last I can beat you at aging,” she muttered and Arthur slumped further into the sofa cushion wishing he could come up with something to make Morgana feel better. His alcohol-addled brain refused to work properly, however, and he collapsed into his plush throw pillow with a grunt of frustration.

He was seriously out of ideas.

“Morgana,” he wined squinting up at her. “Help me. Drunk Morgana always knows what to do.” He smiled pleadingly.

Morgana rolled her eyes, but grinned back at him. “Let me think,” Morgana slurred, bringing a hand to her jaw and drumming her pointer finger on her chin. Arthur thought she looked hilarious.

He chuckled. “What are you doing,” he laughed.

“This is my thinking face, obviously,” Morgana replied seriously.

Arthur nodded. “Obviously,” he agreed.

“So you’re out of ideas,” Morgana mused. “I’m guessing you can’t come up with any new mysteries?”

“That, and my character doesn’t really make sense to me anymore,” he added.

“So why not just ask the old man for help?”

“Father!” Arthur cried indignantly, and it just went to show how absolutely smashed Arthur is that that is where his mind went. “We moved to the states to get away from—“

“No not father, you numpty,” Morgana interrupted, smacking him playfully. “I’m talking about Gauis. You know, the old man we like.”

And there was an idea. Arthur perked up immediately. Of course, why didn’t he think of that? His Godfather would at least be able to help with the plot. He was a captain at the NYPD for Crissake.

“You are a genius Morgana,” Arthur cried, lunging at her and wrapping her in a tight hug. “I knew there was a reason I’ve kept you around all this time.”

Morgana elbowed him in the ribs, but she was laughing. “Oh please, I’m pretty much your only friend. Plus, I’m a delight.”

Arthur shook his head. “First of all, I have Leon. And second of all, a few minutes ago you were far from delightful. You were annoying and practically drank all my whiskey,” Arthur deadpanned.

“Well, I don’t know how you expect me to listen to you prattle on about your mundane writing problems without some bevs in my belly,” Morgana bellowed with a giggle and she wrestled her way out of Arthur’s grasp. After swaying slightly on her feet she managed to turn around and face Arthur, looking somewhat sober save for her drooping eyelids and smeared lip-gloss. She cocked her head and perched a manicured hand on her jutting hip, eyeing Arthur expectantly. “Well are you going to call him or what?”

“Morgana, it’s four in the morning. I don’t think Gauis will be very happy with me if I wake him up at this ungodly hour,” Arthur explained.

“Oh.” Morgana rolled her eyes at herself. The movement must have disoriented her for she stumbled and Arthur leapt from the sofa to catch her.

“Time for bed,” he told her, scooping her up and carrying her to her room. Whenever someone else needed help, Arthur sobered up quickly. It was a curse and a blessing. He set his sister down gently in her bed and she curled up into the sheets with a groan. “Thanks again big sister,” he said smiling down at her.

“You’re welcome,” she mumbled into her pillow and seconds later she was fast asleep.

Arthur went to the kitchen and returned with a bottled water and some paracetamol for the massive hangover Morgana was sure to have when she woke up. When he left her and headed to his room, he opened his laptop and stared at the blank word document in front of him, the cursor a blinking reminder that his deadline for the new installment of his James King series was quickly approaching.

Leaving England at sixteen, leaving his father and all that he once knew behind, Arthur was wounded and scared. The Pendragon children moved in with Gauis, an old friend of Arthur’s deceased mother, but it wasn’t long before Arthur grew hostile. He didn’t know this man very well and Gauis was either trying way too hard or not hard enough. The old man could never seem to win, for Arthur didn’t want him to win. He just wanted to be left alone. When it became too much for Gauis, who wasn’t used to having two teenagers to take care of, let alone two who were so… confrontational, the then-detective at the NYPD forced Arthur and Morgana to go to therapy. It was obvious to the old man that there were still some scars Uther left that his children wouldn’t let heal. It wasn’t so obvious to Arthur.

But John Kilgharrah helped. His therapist tried to convince Arthur to channel his residual frustrations into writing. Arthur had refused at first. Uther Pendragon was a writer and Arthur didn’t want to be anything like his father. But writing came naturally, like he was born to do it. Arthur created his first character, James King. He was a detective like Gauis, like the man who took him and his sister in when they had nowhere else to go. James King was clever and brave and he could solve any mystery. James King took down the bad guys.

His first book, The Castle Defense was nothing to scream about, the plot being a simple homicide case at a mansion in the Hamptons, but Arthur decided to try to get it published anyway. He was only eighteen at the time so his assumption was that no one would look at him or his book twice, but the Nemeth Publishing Co saw The Castle Defense for what it was: a fairytale set in modern times in a day and age where the anti-hero ruled. Mithian Montgomery called Arthur a few months later waxing poetic about James King, claiming he’s a character that can bring a little whimsy and fun and magic back to a medium that’s been taking itself far too seriously in recent decades. Arthur made her his editor on the spot.

His sequel, The Court Jester, which had Detective King investigating the mysterious death of a defense attorney who was poisoned in the middle of a trial and discovering that a new drug on the market, known as fool’s gold was to blame, had a much wider critical response. And when King stopped an art thief who left pretty convincing replicas behind in Counterfeit for a King a year later, the name Arthur Pendragon gained some actual weight in magazine and online reviews. His third book even managed to reach number nine on the New York Time’s Bestsellers list. And all before Arthur turned twenty-one.

Arthur was shocked by his success. It happened so quickly and Arthur realized he had to consider the next book very seriously. Resistance is Feudal debuted at number one. In this one James King was taken hostage and had to investigate from inside a locked room. The abductor turned out to be King’s roommate from college. The critics jumped at the first mention of the detective’s backstory and Arthur set out to make the next three installments of the King series something special. 

King of the Kill, The Crowning Bereavement, and Into Thin Heir became an epic trilogy that was beloved by critics and fans alike. The three-part saga followed James King as his estranged brother Peter King AKA “Kay” came back into his life. In part one, the detective found a note taped to his door claiming that someone was planning to detonate a bomb in one week at the local middle school. He must race against the clock in order to uncover more clues while struggling to sustain a civil relationship with Kay. Although he succeeded at both, it was only just barely. In part two, James reintroduced his brother into his life completely, but just as things were looking up, Kay is shot and killed. James was pulled off of the case he had spent months investigating when news came to light that Kay’s case was now somehow involved. The detective demanded to be a part of the investigation, to get justice for his brother and continue working the case he knew he was close to figuring out, but his captain refused him. He continued to research on his own, but when he did, he discovered that his father was involved, and may in fact have been the murderer. Part three concluded with James hunting down his father and ultimately arresting him for the murder of Peter King and two others who knew the truth that the great Anthony King, architecture mogul, was siphoning millions of dollars from his clients. James may have won, but he felt defeated. He turned in his badge and vanished.

Since then, Arthur hadn’t been able to figure out where to go next.

He closed the laptop and sighed.

Hopefully, Gauis would help him come up with something. This couldn’t be the end for James King. He was too important to Arthur.

***

“And here’s this…. And this. Now we good?”

Tom took a sip of the coffee and inspected the bearclaw thoroughly before returning his attention to Merlin. “It’s acceptable.”

Merlin rolled his eyes. “Remind me to never make another bet with you.”

The giant officer took a bite of his newly obtained pastry with a wicked grin on his face. “No promises, but you should know by now that my vast knowledge of football can’t be beaten, even by you.”

Merlin smirked and narrowed his eyes at Tom. He shouldn’t rise to the bait, but sometimes he just couldn’t help himself. “I will get you one day, Thomas Percival Hopper,” Merlin pledged. “I just haven’t quite figured out American Football yet, but when I do… oh boy you will be buying me breakfast for a whole year.”

Tom was taken aback and sputtered out through the bearclaw in his mouth, “How-- How do you know my middle name?”

Merlin chuckled playfully. “I saw it once on your driver’s license two years ago. In fact,” Merlin added withdrawing from the barracks and heading to the elevator, “I think I’ll call you that from now on in retaliation for you doubting my gift.”

“You will not,” the officer shouted after him. 

The lift doors opened and Merlin stepped inside, shooting Tom a raised brow over his shoulder. “Oh won’t I,” he teased. The doors began to close and Merlin gave the officer one final salute. “See you later, Officer Percy!”

“Merlin—“ The elevator doors closed before Tom could continue his interjections and Merlin let out a chuckle.

A snicker behind him surprised Merlin and he jumped, clutching his rapidly beating chest. “Gwaine, Jesus Christ!”

“Pay attention to your surroundings Merlin,” Gwaine admonished. “How you became a detective is beyond me. Is it the whole British thing? People just assume you’re Sherlock?”

“I’m head detective, thank you,” Merlin corrected.

“Oh sorry, should I start calling you Detective Emrys or something, then,” Gwaine asked mockingly.

Merlin pursed his lips. “Head Detective Emrys, actually, but no. It would be weird if all of a sudden you started caring about titles and authority. I’d assume brainwashing instantly.”

Gwaine gave him a cheeky grin and a wink, as the lift doors opened on their floor. The 12th precinct was far too large considering there were only a few dozen detectives working there, but Merlin wasn’t complaining. He found that when there’s lots of space it was easier to think and solve his cases. He hated being cooped up in a small room by himself.

“Yo, Lance,” Gwaine shouted, marching over to where the detective was sitting at his desk. Gwaine gave him a smack on the shoulder and asked, “How was your date, man?”

Merlin scooted his office chair over to Lance’s desk with one push, took a seat, put a fist to his chin, and looked up at his friend expectantly. Lance stopped writing and scratched his eyebrow with the pen, grinning like a fool. “She was… incredible.”

“Oh boy,” Gwaine cackled, rubbing his hands together mischievously. “Should I start planning the Bachelor party already?”

Lance threw his pen at him. “What makes you think you’re going to be the best man?”

“Oh I’m sure I’m not. Tom, who we’re now calling Percy by the way, is no doubt going to have the honor,” Gwaine conceded with a carless wave of his hand. “But can you imagine attending a bachelor party hosted by the big lug? Love him to pieces, but the man has no idea how to have fun.”

Merlin rolled his eyes, but he has to admit, Gwaine was right. “Ignore him,” Merlin told Lance. “Tell me more about this bird. What’s her name?”

“Gwen,” Lance replied with a dreamy look in his eyes.

“Oh Jesus, you’re a goner aren’t you,” Merlin asks rhetorically. His phone rang and Merlin scooted back over to his desk, leaving Gwaine to ridicule detective Du Lac alone.

Detective Merlin Emrys loved this place. It was weird to love going to work every day, especially since most of his job consisted of looking at dead people, but Merlin enjoyed it. He liked the puzzles. He liked the camaraderie, the easy banter he had with Gwaine, Lance, and Percival. He liked belonging. And he belonged here.

Living in a small town just outside Brighton with his mum, Merlin never really fit in. He read too much and talked too little. It was clear very early on that he was the smartest in his class. He had a photographic memory that rivaled the shite you see in movies and on television. He quickly became a target for constant bullying. His only saving grace was the day he made friends with Will, whose humor was a bit too brash for most, but Merlin found it endearing. Will wasn’t afraid to be himself. And even though Merlin would never actually admit this to the plonker, he made a huge impact on how Merlin saw himself. Merlin Emrys was smart. Get over it.

Secondary school went smoothly and he decided to study criminal law at London South Bank University. The last thing he expected when he came home to visit his mum one summer was the information that a father he’d never known was murdered and they didn’t have any leads. Balinor Lynch was a much beloved detective at the NYPD. He hadn’t known about Merlin’s existence even though his mum was still in contact with him twenty years later. Merlin suspected that if Balinor hadn’t been murdered and Hunith wasn’t a potential suspect, his mum would never have told Merlin about his father or vice-versa. Merlin returned to London and finished his schooling, eventually landing a detective position at the same precinct as his father. He refused to speak to his mum for two years. They still had a strained relationship, but Merlin was certain it would be far worse if he and Hunith weren’t on opposite sides of the Atlantic ocean. His father’s case was now considered cold, but there was one detective who would never stop investigating.

“NYPD this is Merlin Emrys,” he said answering the phone. He rocked back and forth, his chair slightly squeaking as he listened to the person on the other end. “… Phil,” Merlin grunted, bringing a hand to his forehead. “I get that you’re busy, but this is ridiculous. I asked for the finger prints yesterday. Where are they?”

Gwaine and Lance appeared on either side of Merlin with shared expressions of annoyance. Merlin rolled his eyes at them barely paying attention to the analyst who continued to make inane excuses. “… They’re only just being run through the system now,” Merlin exclaimed. “Phil, why?”

Gwaine sighed dejectedly and stomped over to the elevator. Merlin clamped a hand over the receiver and hissed for Gwaine to get back here.

“I’m gonna give that kid a piece of my mind,” Gwaine swore, as the lift doors closed behind him. Merlin wasn’t even paying attention to his phone anymore.

“Lance, stop him,” Merlin ordered. “Phil’s a complainer and I really don’t need Gwaine to get another citation.”

“On it.” Lance set off after Gwaine. Merlin started listening to the analyst again.

“… I swear Barry keeps putting things out of order—“

“Oh piss off, Phil. You can’t blame your intern every time you do something wrong. Get it together,” Merlin demanded, before slamming the phone down. He rubbed his temple and let out a long breath of air.

Yes, Merlin really did love it here. But sometimes the analyst made him want to go on a murder spree.


	2. Sorry, How Long Have You Been Training to be a Prat… My Lord?

“Arthur Pendragon for Captain Richards?”

The gate to the lot buzzed and the parking attendant handed over a visitor’s pass. “His office is on the seventh floor.”

“Thanks,” Arthur told her before pulling up and finding a parking spot. Arthur wrapped the lanyard around his neck and grabbed his book bag from the passenger seat of his tesla. He had planned on taking the train, but remembered he promised to pick Leon up from the airport later that day. 

When the lift doors opened on the seventh floor, Arthur couldn’t keep the proud grin off his face. The open floor plan made it so one can see from one end of the building to the other, unobtrusively. The bull pen had a smattering of desks and chairs only separated by short partitions so the detectives could retain some hint of privacy. On his right were doors that most likely lead to interrogation rooms and to his left was one office with the name “Captain Gauis Richards” engraved on the door.

Arthur felt kind of bad that he hadn’t visited his godfather’s office before this.

Arthur started making his way over to the office when a man standing in front of a white board caught his eye and made him halt in his tracks. The bloke was tall with wavy brown hair and ears that refused to be hidden. He wore black trousers and a checkered shirt with a thin black tie pulled slightly at the collar. He was stroking his stubbly chin with his head tilted slightly while his ocean-blue eyes were narrowed on the evidence on the board in front of him.

Arthur studied the white board as well. It looked to be some kind of strangling case, but on closer examination, the victim was actually drowned. The detective was particularly interested in a set of finger prints that must have been pulled from the boy’s neck. There was a name written underneath it: Darius Friel. Arthur blinked in surprise. He wasn’t really sure how the famous opera singer could possibly have committed this murder since he’d been on tour in Europe for the past three weeks. Arthur vaguely wondered how old this case was.

The ding of the lift opening again took his attention away from the man, and Arthur watched two more detectives step out carrying sandwich bags.

“Merlin, they didn’t have your avocados in so it’s just a regular BLT,” the scruffy looking one murmured, taking out the aforementioned sandwich. “But I got you some chips—er—crisps.” The bloke rolled his eyes but froze when his eyes landed on Arthur. Arthur smiled sheepishly at him. “Yo, Merlin,” he shouted and the bloke who was studying the white board snapped out of his trance and turned around.

“I heard you. What do you— oh.“

“Hey, don’t I know you,” asked a third man who Arthur thought was far too handsome to just be a detective. He could have easily played one on TV, though.

Arthur motioned to himself stupidly. “Me?”

“Yeah,” the scruffy one said with a shit-eating grin. “You do look familiar… but I can’t quite put my finger on it.” Arthur thought his tone sounded vaguely teasing, but he couldn’t figure out why. The blonde looked back at the man named Merlin, who was definitely staring daggers at the other detectives. “If looks could kill, am I right,” the scruffy one asked Arthur. “I’m Gwaine.”

Arthur took the proffered hand with a little chuckle. “Arthur.”

“I know,” Gwaine stated simply.

“What are you doing here?” Merlin had finally spoken, his voice far deeper than Arthur would have assumed. Arthur couldn’t miss the way the question sounded more like an accusation.

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “I—“

“Arthur, my boy!”

Arthur twisted around and grinned widely at his Godfather. “Gauis!”

Gauis’s eyebrows rose exponentially and he gives all the detectives in the room a hard look. “Only he gets to call me that, you hear?”

“Yes Captain,” Gwaine responded immediately and Arthur was thoroughly impressed. Gwaine didn’t seem like the kind of person who would respect just anyone’s authority.

“Good,” Gauis stated before turning back to Arthur. “Now why don’t we step into my office?”

Arthur shook his head amusedly and could feel the eyes of the three detectives on his back as he followed the old man into the surprisingly spacious room. Gauis closes the door behind them. “Nice place you’ve got here,” Arthur complimented.

Gauis smiled proudly before taking a seat behind his desk. “And the people are great too.”

Arthur remembered Merlin’s antagonistic question and scoffed. “Except that one fellow. What’s his deal?”

“You’re talking about Merlin.” It wasn’t a question. Gauis sighed. “Don’t mind him. He’s just still figuring things out now that I promoted him to head detective. He’s usually very nice.”

Arthur wasn’t really sure what Gauis meant by that, but he assumed Merlin was just having an off day. Maybe the case on the board was proving too difficult. “That kid’s head detective? He’s so young,” Arthur barked in disbelief.

Gauis only shrugged. “But he’s incredibly smart. I think this new case is frustrating the hell out of him.”

“The one on the board,” Arthur asked. “It is a bit strange. I mean, why would a body that spent days in the ocean before washing up on the shore have fingerprints on it? And how can they be Darius Friel’s? He’s been out of the country for a few weeks now. Did the body float it’s way across the whole bloody ocean?”

Gauis looked taken aback. “You got all that from the board? How long were you out there?”

“A couple minutes.”

“Wow…” Gauis shook his head with a small chuckle. “No wonder your detective books are so good.”

“Speaking of,” Arthur said, “I called because I’m having a little trouble with the eighth book.”

“Oh?” Gauis folded his hands politely in front of him and looked ready to listen. “Well, how far have you gotten?”

Arthur pretended to think about it, but ultimately decides to tell Gauis the truth. “Well… I haven’t written a single word.”

“Do you have a premise?”

“No.”

“Oh Arthur,” Gauis sympathized. “I’m sorry to hear that. You know how much I love your books, but I’m not exactly sure what you want me to do about this.”

“Actually I was thinking about it,” Arthur announced, “and I’m certain I just need to be… around some detectives. Maybe something will come to me if I am.” Gauis seemed uncertain, but Arthur wasn’t going to let this go. “Please Gauis. I really need this,” he begged. “I’ll just sit quietly in the background and observe. At least give me the afternoon. I have to leave at two to pick Leon up anyway.” Arthur put his palms together and grinned at his Godfather pleadingly.

“Who are you kidding, Arthur? Like you’re going to be able to just sit back and watch.” But Gauis’s tone was full of begrudging acceptance.

“I’ll try my best… for you,” Arthur promised, hopping out of his chair excitedly. It had been a long time since he’d been this enthusiastic about writing. He even felt hopeful. “Thank you, thank you,” Arthur exclaimed before he crossed around the desk and wraps the captain in a hug. “You’re the man… or whatever you Americans say these days.”

Gauis chuckled ruefully but got up and lead Arthur back out of his office. “Emrys!”

“Yes captain?” Merlin looked up from his paperwork but seemed to deliberately avoid eye contact with Arthur.

“Make some room at your desk and grab that extra chair of Gary’s. I don’t even know why he has that,” Gauis mused.

“Uh… why sir,” Merlin asked hesitantly.

“Arthur will be shadowing you this afternoon.”

Merlin went green around the gills as if he was about to chunder. Arthur had to force himself not to laugh. After a few seconds Merlin finally mumbled out a dejected, “Yes sir.”

***

“So, you related to the captain or somethin’?”

Merlin tried his best to ignore Gwaine and Arthur, but begrudgingly he was a little curious about the blonde. He continued filling out the search warrant of Darius Friel’s residence while secretly paying attention to the conversation happening behind him.

“He’s my Godfather,” Arthur explained. Merlin blinked in surprise but still didn’t look up from his work.

“Can I be a character in your next book,” Gwaine asked like a puppy dog begging for a bone.

Arthur laughed. “I don’t know, maybe. I haven’t started writing it yet, so I’m sure I can find a place for you.”

“You haven’t started writing it yet,” Merlin exclaimed whirling on Arthur. When he realized this outburst was a little telling, Merlin spun back around slightly, his ears surely turning bright red, and tried to remedy the situation. “I mean…” Merlin cleared his throat, wracking his brain for something to say.

“Oh! You’re that guy from that book!” Three pairs of eyes landed on Lance. “What,” he asked. “I just figured out why you look so familiar.”

Arthur seemed confused and that was the only reason Merlin hadn’t stabbed Lance in the neck yet. “Yeah, I’m a writer. This has already been established,” Arthur said dumbly.

“No,” Lance said. “The one from the book. The one Merlin won’t shut up about.”

Ok, it was time to murder Lance. Merlin was pretty sure it would be worth the lifetime he’d spend in prison.

Arthur’s slightly crooked smile landed on Merlin. “Oh is that so?”

“I’m going to kill you,” Merlin promised, his eyes boring holes into Lance’s stupid face.

“Whoa, Merlin, calm down buddy,” Gwaine stage-whispered. “There are cops everywhere.”

Merlin grabbed the first thing off his desk that he could reach and chucked it at Gwaine’s head. It was only when the item was safely clutched in Gwaine’s fist that Merlin realizes he threw one of Arthur’s books. Damn Gwaine and his abilities to both annoy Merlin to no end and catch anything hurled his way.

Arthur’s smile grew at the sight of his novel. “Resistance is Feudal is a fan favorite,” Arthur gloated cockily. He returned his sky blue gaze on Merlin. “My, my, Detective Merlin Emrys, are you a fan?”

Merlin gave a snort of derision but couldn’t seem to get the words out to dispute the allegation. Probably because Merlin was a fan.

“I’m gonna get this to a judge,” Merlin stated instead, sweeping the completed affidavit from his desk and sprinting to the lift.

“Hey! Wait,” Arthur shouted after him. “I’m here to shadow you.” Arthur reached the elevator right before the doors closed behind him and a silence fell over the compact space. “So…” Arthur pondered aloud after a few moments. “Do you think it’s some kind of frame job?”

Merlin was completely taken off guard by the question. “What?”

“Darius Friel,” Arthur stated evenly, nodding toward the affidavit in Merlin’s hand. “I just looked him up and his opera group only just yesterday returned from Paris. How could his fingerprints possibly be on the victim’s neck, especially considering the boy wasn’t even strangled. Someone must have planted the prints.”

That was exactly what Merlin was thinking as well and that irked him to no end. “When exactly did you look up Friel’s whereabouts?”

Arthur looked a little sheepish and he rubbed the back of his neck. “Fine you caught me. I didn’t have to look it up. An acquaintance of mine was on the same tour and I just talked to her yesterday.”

Merlin blinked. “Why’d you lie?”

“Well you don’t seem to like me very much and I thought maybe it’s because you think I’m some kind of London toff. I didn’t think telling you I was friends with famous opera singers would garner me any points with you.”

Merlin squinted at Arthur as the lift finally stopped on their floor and the doors slid open. “Why would you care what I think,” Merlin questioned him.

“I don’t,” the blonde replied with a smirk, but Merlin couldn’t help but feel it was a lie. “Honestly your hostility towards me since I’ve gotten here seems a bit unwarranted. We’re both British. I’m sure we can be civil towards each other at the very least.”

The two men continued to stare at each other for a long moment before the lift doors began closing. Arthur shot out an arm to open them once again and gave Merlin a questioning look and a confused half-smile.

“Fine.”

“Fine?” Arthur repeated the word and looked to be trying to remember what the single-word sentence was in response to. Arthur nodded. “Good enough, I suppose. If you get that warrant signed today, can I come with?”

Merlin leaned against the wall and gave the blonde a calculating stare, but as far as he could tell, Arthur Pendragon was being genuine. Merlin sighed. Perhaps he was being a bit prejudiced because of this man’s fame and fortune. He seemed sincerely nice. “I doubt that will happen, but I’ll tell you what…” Merlin shook his head like he couldn’t quite believe what he was about to suggest. They say you shouldn’t meet your heroes. They’ll only disappoint you. But Merlin was more disappointed in himself at the moment. He should probably start getting a few more hours of sleep at night. “If the captain allows it, you can come back tomorrow. That is, if you’re not too busy being a posh wanker.”

Arthur smiled. “Couldn’t help yourself, could you?”

Merlins shrugged in response.

“Well, my arm’s getting tired. Would you mind exiting the lift, Merlin?”

Merlin startled out of whatever trance Arthur’s eyes put him under and stepped out of the confined space. Arthur pulled back his arm and took a step back into the elevator. “You aren’t coming with,” Merlin asked.

Arthur scoffed. “I’m just a writer. I’ll leave the boring police work to the real detectives.” Before Merlin could react, the lift doors closed and Arthur was gone.


	3. Arthur's One of Those Rough, Tough, Save the World Kind of Men.

“Sometime I wonder about your sanity, Arthur. You’re a best-selling author of one of the best detective series in the world with loads of money to spend as you wish and a brand new consulting job at the NYPD. All that, and you willingly offer to pick up your friend at JFK. You are certifiable.”

“First of all, I am not a consultant at the NYPD… yet,” Arthur explained, letting his foot off the brake to inch forward a few meters and then stop again. “Second of all, if you’re complaining, I’ll kick you out of the car right now in the middle of the I-678. Is that what you want, mate? Because this fancy car probably has an ejectable passenger seat. I haven’t figured out what all the buttons do quite just yet.”

Leon chuckled giddily and clapped his hands together with a resounding, “Yes! Oh how I’ve missed this Arthur. The Arthur who makes very elaborate threats instead of just throwing a peace sign my way—“

“It’s not a peace sign,” Arthur interrupted. “This,“ —Arthur throws up two finger, his index and middle, with his palm facing Leon— “is a peace sign. This,” —Arthur then flips the palm towards himself— “is British for you can suck a bag of dicks.”

“You seem more yourself. This Merlin guy must be something special to get you out of the funk you’ve been in for the last six months.”

“Has it really been that long?” Arthur saw Leon nod his head out of the corner of his eye. “And what do you mean, Merlin? My new attitude has nothing to do with that moody git.”

“Sure it does. Merlin was strange. He didn’t act the way you assumed he would. Weird is your favorite character trait, Arthur, and it’s something you’ve been desperately missing from your life for a while.”

Arthur paused and let that sink in for a moment. “Huh.”

“Traffic’s moving,” Leon pointed out.

“Fucking finally,” Arthur cheered. “Morgana’s ordering sushi at eight. She claimed she’d eat it all if we don’t get back in time.”

“Oh, I’m invited for dinner?”

Arthur looked over at his friend suspiciously. “Why are you acting all coy about this? When have I ever just taken you home with no meal after a long flight.”

“Well you did just threaten to leave me in the middle of the highway.”

“That was clearly a joke… do you not want to come over?”

“No, no of course I want to come over,” Leon affirmed. “Just forget that whole thing. I don’t know why I asked that.”

Arthur let the silence linger, but after fifteen minutes he had to know, “Does this have something to do with Morgana?”   
“Leave it be, Arthur.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing. Just drop it.”

Arthur let another minute pass. “What did she do?”

Leon let out a long suffering sigh and groaned in frustration. He ran a hand through his curly ginger locks, making it even frizzier than it was after his eight hour international flight. “Sometimes I really hate you.”

Arthur glanced over at Leon and gave his mate a sheepish grin. “I know.”

Leon chuckled as the frustration that lined his face disappeared and his expression became more resigned to his fate. “I asked her out. She said ‘No’.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“When was this?”

“About three weeks back.”

“Hmm…” Another bout of silence settled over the car.

As they merged onto the I-495 ten minutes later, Leon broke the silence. “I’m basing my new character on her.”

“Morgana?”   
“Were we talking about someone else?”

“Well… no. But it’s been a few minutes. You could have been having a whole conversation in your head about someone else. You’ve been known to do that on occasion,” Arthur told him and Leon laughed. “So, what’s the story going to be about?”

“A beautiful madwoman who can never seem to escape the shadow of her younger sister.”

“Ah… So complete fiction then.”

“Clearly.”

“That’s a new direction for you. Usually you tend to stick to those classic disastrous romances.”

Leon shrugged and muttered, “It was starting to feel too real.”

“The love?”

“The tragedy.”

“So dramatic,” Arthur joked with a roll of his eyes.

“Well…I am a writer.”

“I’d give her a little more time, mate. Just a little more.”

“You know,” Leon grumbled, “maybe I should wonder about my own sanity. How’s that saying go again: the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Yeah, that’s probably true.”

Arthur pulled onto Grand Central Parkway, which meant only another hour of driving remained. The blonde tilted his head to the right and looked at his despondent friend. “But…” he prompted.

Leon rolled his eyes and shook his head. “I’ll give her a little more time. But only ’til the day I die.”

***

“Bloody fuck!” Merlin dropped the ham and cheese hot pocket onto the floor and rushed to the sink to run cold water over his burnt fingers. You would think by now, Merlin would remember to wait a few minutes before releasing the microwavable delicacy from it’s confines, but he was a bit distracted at the moment.

On his return home, Merlin doubled down on his father’s case. He felt like he had been slacking off lately and that was no way to solve Balinor’s murder. He should be doing more. He should always be researching, staying one step ahead. He should be better than this. Detective work was what Merlin Emrys was born to do. It was even in his genes, as it turned out.

But as the water soothed his burns, Merlin closed his eyes and sighed a breath of relief. With his eyes shut, Merlin felt the wait of the world lift off his shoulders and under the shadows of his eyelids a startling blue stared back at him. It was as if the sky itself was watching him and pleading with him to crawl into bed and stay with it, locked into the soft embrace of the cloudless day.

It’s 1:00 in the morning, Merlin, it told him. Go to bed, Merlin. Tomorrow is another day. And you have a different murder to solve.

Merlin’s first instinct was to argue, but knew it was pointless. Arguing with one’s self is the first step in the journey to the madhouse. The sky was right. He had another murder to solve in the morning. He should be sharp as a tack.

He shut off the faucet and threw his hot pocket in the bin before heading to the back of his flat and collapsing onto his bed. There were papers strewn all across it and they crumpled under his weight. Merlin groaned loudly before rolling over and looking at his now creased paperwork. The brunette stared at the documents for a long time before he realized these papers were unimportant anyway. There were months of research there in that pile of papers, but all of it, useless. Utterly useless. Why did he keep them? Merlin fingered one of the pages and stared at the words and numbers. It was a bank statement from two years before his father’s death.

Merlin’s heart sank. Was he really this desperate? He was clearly falling down a rabbit hole into the abyss of his father’s mystery. A two year old document to catch a killer that probably didn’t even exist. Perhaps Balinor Lynch’s murder was the incredibly elaborate thriller that kept Merlin up at night. Or perhaps it was simply the work of a common street thug, a mugging gone horribly wrong.

Why do I obsess like this?

But Merlin knew why. Puzzles were meant to be solved and Merlin couldn’t rest until all the pieces fit together perfectly. This was what made him such a brilliant detective, why he was spearheaded to Head Detective at such a young age.

Merlin crumpled the bank statement into his fist. Something was different now. He was acknowledging his obsessive nature with a critical eye. What must he look like to those around him? Why did he suddenly care?

His eyes flickered over to his bookshelf and they landed on The Castle Defense by Arthur Pendragon. The cover was mangled and the words were faded by the numerous times it was read. He had been sixteen when that particular book hit the shelves. It sounded like every other detective series on the market. The mystery was generic and the author only seemed to have a basic understanding of what happened at a police station. But none of that mattered, for the character of James King was brilliant.

If the subsequent novel had been a description of James King getting ready in the morning, Merlin would have read it. If the book after that had James King taking his niece to a footie game, Merlin would have read it. Merlin would read anything James King did, for he was the heart of Merlin’s favorite book series. He was courageous, yet terrified. He was intelligent, yet simple. James King was a person.

Meeting the author today, the man who created James King, had been a blow to Merlin’s pride. Not because Arthur Pendragon was any less than Merlin thought he would be, but because Merlin suddenly realized he, himself, was the one who was lesser than he had always dreamt. The only time Merlin felt like he was truly living was when he was at work. Not because of he was a detective, but because he was a person, surrounded by friends.

Merlin flipped off the bed and pulled out a banker’s box from underneath. He lifted the lid and shoved every piece of paper off his bed and into the box haphazardly. He was done coming home to a cold case every night.

Merlin knew his father’s murder would never disappear from the back of his mind completely, but it was time to set it aside and focus on the living. To cease to exist after stepping out of the 12th precinct was no way to walk this Earth.

Merlin walked over to his shelf and removed The Castle Defense. He flipped to the cover page and grinned down at the dedication:

For the man who gave me life. My real life. Not that shitty thing people call birth. -Arthur

The dedication was underlined three times and underneath it, in Will’s chicken scratch:

You’re welcome. Happy Christmas, Merlin. -Will

Merlin gave an involuntary chuckle and his eyes widened in understanding. For the past nine years he thought Will had just been his usual brash self, saying a preemptive “You’re welcome” before Merlin could muster up a “Thank you.” But now, looking back, Will was probably replying to the dedication, as if Merlin himself had written it. Merlin could remember what his life was like at sixteen years old. He spent a lot of time thinking about his dad, wondering where he was, and why he left. Merlin was angry all the time, but Will was unfailingly there to cheer him up. Will had given him life but Merlin never told him as such. But it seemed that Will had always known.

Merlin snorted. Wanker.

Merlin set his alarm for 6:30 and crawled into bed, opening The Castle Defense to it’s first page. By the end of the first chapter, Merlin had fallen asleep, James King’s sky-blue eyes invading his dreams. When he awoke the next morning, Merlin felt more refreshed than he had been in months.

***

At breakfast, Arthur and Morgana ate in complete silence, but that was quickly changed.

“So—“   
“Don’t start, Arthur.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” Arthur defended.

“I can guess… I think it probably went something like, ‘So, Morgana, why’d you say no to Leon? He’s a nice bloke.’”

Arthur grimace. That was fairly accurate. “Fine.” They continued to eat in silence, the only sound the clinking of metal against ceramic and the crunch of toast. “Well, why did you?”

Morgana groaned and stood up from her seat taking her dishes to the sink. “I’m not doing this right now. I hate you.”

“You sound like Leon,” Arthur muttered, the sound drowned out the by the running water from the kitchen faucet. Arthur stood up and joined her at the sink. He set down his bowl and glass and hugged his sister from behind. “Sorry.”

“I know you are, and I would ask you to never bring it up again, but I know it’s pointless,” Morgana told him as she rinsed off the too bowls and stuck them in the dishwasher. “Look—“ Morgana spun around abruptly in his arms, and Arthur reached behind her to turn off the faucet.

“Yes?”

“I know you won’t believe any excuse I give for not going out with Leon, because mostly… well they would all be lies. I do fancy him and I think we would be good together.”

“So why say no?”

“Because I’m fucked up… and he doesn’t deserve that.”

“I think you don’t give yourself enough credit, ‘Gana.”

“And I think you give me too much,” Morgana countered, but gave him small smile. “But that’s just who you are. You see the best in people.” His sister hugged him tightly and Arthur returned it in kind. “I’m not in a good place, little brother,” she muttered into his shirt. “And the night before last… I drank half your whiskey.”

“I know,” Arthur sighed. “I shouldn’t have let you—“

“Let me?! Arthur, what were you going to do? Lock me up in my bedroom? Feed me through a slat in the door? Yeah that would have helped my depression.” Arthur let out a small chuckle at the thought of feeding Morgana through a flap. Morgana slapped him on the shoulder with an exasperated huff and shook her head in annoyance, her lips quirking ever so slightly. “Listen, I started taking my meds again. We can talk about Leon in a month, ok? And if you bring my love life up any sooner than that, I’ll bring up yours.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes at the threat. “Fine. Deal.”

“Good,” she said primly. “Now I believe you have a case at the NYPD to solve.”

Arthur snickered. “Oh yeah, Morgana. In fact, I’m pretty sure they made me lead detective,” Arthur joked.

“Congratulations,” Morgana bantered smoothly. “Well hurry up then, or your subordinates will wonder where you are.”

“Subjects, ‘Gana,” Arthur corrected. “They’re called subjects.”

“And you’re their Prince?”

“Exactly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N- I really, really hope I get another urge to write, because I love this story so much. Please cross your fingers that there will be another chapter to post next Wednesday.
> 
> Sigh... I knew I should have waited until I had the whole episode written. I really don't want to have another of my fics on hiatus like Love is a Polaroid.


End file.
